


Afghan Bullets, Beards, and Unlocked Bedroom Doors

by addicted2hugh



Series: Afghan Bullets, Beards, and Unlocked Bedroom Doors [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Always1895, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, It's Still Mostly Porn Though, John Has a Beard, M/M, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 04, References to Canon, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-17 17:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15466242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: Set after series 4. The boys are living together again, and John's new style drives Sherlock crazy. He's trying to keep his besotted heart and over-excited libido a secret, but John has other plans.Lots. Of. SEX.And love.And my boys enjoying themselves.If you want some short and smutty fluff to read over your morning coffee or evening tea, this could be it.





	Afghan Bullets, Beards, and Unlocked Bedroom Doors

**Author's Note:**

> My first time participating in the Always1895 Fic Prompt Challenge. I got inspired by the latest (now famous) pictures of Martin Freeman wearing a beard (I think he looks HOT!), and when the August theme was announced, I decided to use the opportunity and post this to the collection. It's basically PWF, but a few angsty topics come up, and those might be addressed in a sequel. (I still can't stop trying to fix series 4… XD/;_;) 
> 
> If you like it, leave me some kudos and/or a comment, because those make my day :)!

John wears a beard now.

I've been so occupied with case work recently that I barely noticed that he stopped shaving, and now that I'm sitting at the kitchen table, having a real, proper breakfast with him and Rosie for the first time in weeks, it makes me realise two things.

One: As roommates, we work so well and I've gotten so used to his presence in my---  _our_  flat again that I've allowed myself to cease to monitor his every move, which is, on the one hand, a great relief.  _He's here to stay. (It’s okay. He's not going to hurt me anymore.)_  On the other hand, it's a reason for concern.  _If he thinks I've stopped caring, he might turn away from me again._

Two: John with a beard, a full one (not like that ridiculous moustache he sported when I returned from Serbia) is a sight to behold.

He's smiling at his daughter right now, handing her a piece of buttered toast, and I steal a long look at his face and wonder what his cheeks feel like now. Not that I know what his cheeks feel like  _without_  hair. Despite the fact that my desire to touch him has only been growing more prominent each day - ever since he came back to me after both our lives were turned around by what happened to his wife and my sister and, in the long run, the two of us -, I know I'd never do something about it. He's made it quite clear that he's not interested in  _that_  kind of relationship, and so all I can do is dream, imagine,  _fantasise_. 

I'm positive that his new look will make an appearance in one of my occasional forays into the realms of irrational longing soon.

By now I've perfected the art of suppressing physical reactions to stimuli of all sorts - pain, delight, fear, arousal - but I'm very sure that this, this aching desire pulling at my insides whenever I look at him, will not go away, no matter how hard I try. He's the failure in my otherwise perfectly functioning system, and he's always been. No matter what he's done. No matter what he'll do in the future.

I laugh with John Watson. I cry in front of John Watson.

I'd still die for John Watson.

And, as hard as it is to admit it, I  _want_  John Watson. With my body.

It doesn't happen often, but when it does, there's no stopping it. I lose control. My breathing accelerates, my blood starts to rush through my veins, and my heart stutters in my chest. I feel light-headed. My loins burn at the mere thought of him when I'm being weak like that, and I have to,  _have to_  deal with it the only way I know how. If it happens at night, I take my time doing it, getting naked under my covers and drawing it out until I'm drenched in sweat and out of my mind with lust. If it happens during the day, I take care of it quickly and efficiently, using any available bathroom whatsoever, resorting to my mind palace to evoke my favourite images of him to help proceedings along. In my head, it's not a battered ceramic sink I'm spilling myself into, or my own cupped hand. It's his sweet mouth, or sometimes his tight, muscular body, writhing beneath me while he smiles and breathes my name and bathes me in his own release.

When I come back to reality, I'm always a little sad that I'll never have the real thing, a little disappointed in myself because I still haven't managed to get over it, and a little embarrassed.

I love him. I  _yearn_  for him.

But he mustn't know. He's  _not gay_ , and he's  _not my date_ , and that's that.

He takes a bite of his own toast and grins at me, and I snap out of my musings and wonder whether I've been staring, and whether he's noticed.

"So," he says. "Case closed, huh?"

I nod and sip my tea.

"Any plans for today, then?" he asks.

I shrug.

"Not really. Why do you ask?"

He wipes his lips with his napkin, carefully, concentrating on the corners of his mouth. I will myself not to care. And fail.

"Well, if you're free later, we could draft out the next blog story together. I could use your help with the timeline," he then answers. "It's Rosie's day out with Mrs H today, so we'll be on our own. I thought I'd use the opportunity to get some work done." 

Suddenly, I'm not at all hungry anymore.

I enjoy working with him on his blog, even though I'd never let it show. He's so endearing when he sits there, typing away on his laptop, concentrating, coming up with silly titles. Asking me about the cases, the suspects, the clues. I love watching him when he's writing. 

But I'm not sure how well I'll manage to keep up my disguise, now that he looks like this.

Oh well. The only thing worse than looking at him is  _not_  looking at him.

"Okay," I say.

\---

He's stroking his beard, lost in thought.

I'm honestly trying not to faint.

He's doing it without noticing, and I'm surprised that he's developed mannerisms involving this newest addition to his already annoyingly handsome face so soon.

I wish I knew what his fingertips feel when they brush the thick silver-blond curls covering his cheeks, his chin, the angles of his jaw. Is the hair there soft or coarse? I'd love to analyse the texture of it, see if the greyer strands feel different from the golden ones, feel the warmth of his skin underneath.

I want him to rub his face against the side of my neck as I run my fingers down his spine.

_Stop._

"Sherlock? Are you listening to me?" he wants to know.

I look up and into his eyes.

"Sorry?"

"I was asking you about the ink stains on the murderer's sleeve. But if you're preoccupied, we can always postpone this."

"No. No, I'm sorry. I'm--- tired," I lie.

He studies my face.

"Did you sleep at all in the last three days, Sherlock?"

He worries about me. I soak it up like a sponge. On the outside, I press my lips together, giving myself an air of indifference.

"You know what it's like when the solving of a case is imminent. I can't just turn my brain off and take a break. I can sleep later," I say.

"Yeah. I know," he quips and smiles with only one side of his mouth, and I can't read his tone.

His eyes are twinkling, the lines around them crinkling mischievously.

I'm lost.

I find it hard to breathe.

"Okay. Ink?" he says after an infuriatingly confusing pause.

I'm rubbish at this. I can deduce absolutely  _everything_  about  _everybody_ , except when it comes to him.

It's frustrating.

"He had written the note," I answer absent-mindedly. "It wasn't suicide."

John nods.

"Why don't you lie down now?" he says. "We don't have to update the blog until the weekend. We can do this later."

Lie down. It begins to sound tempting. Maybe it will help to get rid of the incessant distractions my body keeps providing me with. Maybe afterwards, I'll be able to focus.

"Yes," I say. "Maybe I will. Thank you, John. And I'm sorry."

He smiles warmly.

"It's okay. Go have a rest."

\---

Quiet. He's right across the hall. 

I hardly ever speak out loud while I'm in my mind palace, but better be safe than sorry.

_Oh God._

I'm lying in my bed, the duvet pulled up to my chin, wearing only a t-shirt and my underwear. I've drawn the curtains, and in the room's semi-darkness everything looks soft and shapeless. I'm thinking of John, and his beard, and his voice, and I'm so hard that it almost hurts. 

I slip into the scenario as easily as I always do.

My hand is  _his_ , now, and he's stroking me slowly, his wrist caught in the waistband of my silk boxers. His fingers are strong, but gentle. He knows exactly what I need. 

"John," I sigh.

"Yes," he whispers back. "I've got you…"

He gets under the covers with me, fully dressed, and nuzzles my ear. It tickles. I'm amazed at the sensation my brain is making up. It feels so real. He's always beautiful to me, but this beard… It makes him look more masculine, somehow, a little more dangerous, and it brings out the colour of his eyes in a way that makes my knees feel weak.

He exhales against my neck, and goose bumps spread all over my back and arms.

It  _feels_  real.

I breathe him in. He smells of tea and warm toast and his spicy, woody aftershave. I'm drowning in his scent, and I never want to come to the surface again. I'll stay here, surrounded by him, forever.

"You're so beautiful," he rumbles and nips at my earlobe, and the slight sting of his teeth pressing into my skin is what does it in the end.

This shouldn't be---

I jerk out of the fantasy, and my eyes fly open. I pull my hand out of my pants as if burned. My cheeks are aflame.

It  _is_  real.

Oh no.  _Oh_   _no!_

I'm so ashamed. 

So scared.

" _Shhh_ … It's alright…" he breathes against my temple and puts his palm on my forearm to keep me from moving it away from my stomach.

My hand is sweaty. There's damp heat between my legs, and I can smell myself everywhere around us.

It's  _real_.

He'll be disgusted.

" _John_ ," I repeat.

His lips are on my cheek. He's kissing me?

"I know. I want it, too, Sherlock… I want it so much," he murmurs.

I've never heard his voice sound like this before. It's a little rough, and very low, and it's reaching places inside of me that I didn't even know existed.

"Don't be afraid," he adds. " _Please_ …"

I'm paralysed. My arousal has turned into blind fear, and I don't understand what he's saying there. He wasn't supposed to see me like this. It was my secret. He'll leave me.

I'll die if he leaves me.

"Sherlock… I've been reading your signals for a while now," he says, his hand resting on my chest now, caressing me through the thin, worn-out fabric of my t-shirt. "I just--- I needed time to work it out. And today--- God, I just couldn't help myself. You're gorgeous when you're flustered. I wanted to talk to you, finally get it out in the open. And then I saw you lying here, completely out of it, pleasuring yourself… saying my name… I couldn't turn around and leave, Sherlock. Maybe I should have, but I just couldn't. I'm sorry."

My mind is reeling, trying to catch up with what I'm hearing, but I'm not fully there yet.

I stare at him. He likes me like this?

"You look like I've broken your brain," he continues, and now he sounds as insecure as I'm feeling. "I know you're confused. Hell,  _I'm_  confused. But--- I've been falling for you for the last year and a half, Sherlock. Maybe it started even earlier. I---  _God_ , I hope I'm not interpreting this the wrong way." He looks at me, his ocean-blue eyes desperate. "Please just  _say_  something," he adds pleadingly.

I open my mouth to reply, but I don't know how to do this.

It's so simple.

_I love you._

I can't.

I put my free hand behind his head, shivering at the feeling of his soft hair between my fingers.

He swallows audibly.

I pull him towards me. His nose is brushing mine now. I can't see his eyes anymore. His breath is hot against my cheeks. His fingers bury themselves into my t-shirt, grab a handful of it, twist it in their grasp. 

His lips are pliant and so, so warm. And his beard is much softer than I thought.

We kiss.

It's delicious.

Slowly, I feel myself calm down, and my mental capacities return to me. I'm kissing John Watson. He wants it. It's not a dream this time.

" _Sherlock_ ," he sighs into my mouth.

I've never done anything like this before. I learned early on what my body needs, and then spent years ridding myself of these impulses. Until he came along… and it all began again. 

I have to tell him now. It's not fair - he's opened up, showed me all of himself, and I've been mute the whole time.

"John… I've loved you for longer than I can remember," I tell him, mumbling into the wetness between our lips, tasting his unique, complex flavour and memorising every molecule hitting my tongue. "I thought you wouldn't--- I never dared to hope. I was--- too scared."

"I'm sorry," he answers breathlessly. "So sorry. Forgive me."

I don't know what he's talking about.

"What for?" I ask.

He hesitates.

"For--- For making you think I'd never be interested in you. I know why you were scared - because I  _made_  you feel scared. I've always tried to hide it. I'm--- I wasn't comfortable with it. Feeling like that for another man. And I--- I hurt you. With words, and with my hands. I'll never forgive myself for hurting you, Sherlock."

I suck his bottom lip into my mouth and swipe my tongue across it. He shivers beautifully.

"I know," I whisper. "But it's okay."

I've forgiven him. I always knew I would, even while cowering at his feet with blood dripping from my nose.

He tilts his head into the kiss a little more, but doesn't stop speaking in between soft brushes of his lips against mine.

"No… I'm  _sorry_ , Sherlock. I should have been braver. I should have been a better man. A long time ago. Long before---"

I stop him before he can say her name. I don't want this new start to be tainted by old pain.

" _Sshhh_ …" I hush him. "We don't have to talk about it now."

I think I understand him a little bit. I know his sister's coming out dealt their father a hard blow, which eventually led to the siblings becoming estranged from their parents. I also know John experienced domestic violence in his youth – he hinted at it in past conversations, but by then I’d already deduced it from the way he speaks of "Dad". I somehow see why the fear of admitting his feelings to not only himself but also the rest of the world was so deeply ingrained in him that he didn't manage to escape it. And it might also explain a lot of other things, things I've been trying to forget, and I don't have the strength to address them just yet. I know we'll have to, one day. But not now.

I reach up with my other arm and cup his face in my hand, let my thumb run along his cheekbone, then his beard. I'm allowed to touch, at last. I'll make use of every second of this.

"Promise me we _will_ talk, Sherlock," he demands lowly, a hint of self-loathing glinting in his eyes. "If we’re really doing this, I _need_ to. Soon."

I nod and send him a soft smile.

"I promise. But not here, not like this. I want this to be about  _now_ ," I say quietly.

He turns his head and kisses my palm, inhales deeply while he presses his lips against my skin, and only then do I realise that it's the hand I used to---

Appalled by myself, I try to pull away, but his own hand comes up and keeps me from doing so.

"I can smell you," he breathes, his eyes sliding shut.

He takes another long, deep breath, and then his tongue is there, nudging me,  _tasting_  me.

" _Hmmm_ …" he hums.

I can deduce  _this_ , even if I can hardly believe my own eyes. It's need, and trust, and abandon. He's letting go, letting me see it all.

He really feels the same.

A shudder runs through me, and my awkward embarrassment suddenly turns into helpless desire. My body tenses, not knowing how to process the onslaught of emotions, not knowing what to do to quench the thirst for contact, for touch, for  _John_.

I'm out of my depths.

I choke on my next breath when he opens his lids again and pierces me with a blazing look and then lets go of me to put his hand right over my crotch instead.

"I really--- I want more," he says lowly and  _squeezes_. "I’ve wanted more for such a long time now. Sleep with me, Sherlock."

_Oh. God._

I freeze, tongue-tied, feeling self-consciousness engulf me once more with a vengeance. No one has ever touched me this way before. I need to tell him.

Before I can collect my wits and form the words to do just that, he turns and rolls away to get up. I'm taken aback. Is he leaving now after all?

"It's too hot under those covers," he says, his voice no longer hesitant and shy, but a husky drawl. 

And then he undresses. Slowly. Looking at me throughout it all, setting me alight with his dark, predatory gaze.

His shirt comes off first. He's naked underneath, all smooth, golden skin and firm muscles. His sun-shaped scar is clearly visible against his otherwise unblemished torso. His stomach is flat, his arms defined, his whole physique still showing that he used to rely on his body being fit and ready to fight at a moment's notice in the past. There's a trail of wispy curls starting at his navel and vanishing into the waistband of his faded jeans. He's glowing in the dim light, all his angles accentuated, inviting me to touch, to taste, to explore.

His jeans, already sitting low on his hips, are next. His penis is rather large, and very hard. I can tell from the bulge in his navy pants. They're tight. He doesn't take them off, keeps what is hiding inside a secret for now. He's barefoot already.

"Sit up," he orders quietly, and I obey without thinking.

He grabs the hem of my t-shirt and pulls it up and over my head, then drops it behind himself without looking. He's taking me in, and I feel exposed, which is weird. It's just transport. He's seen it a hundred times before. He hasn't seen the new scars yet, but I'll deal with that as soon as it comes up. It would break the mood if I told him now.

"You're obsessed with the beard," he states and gets into bed with me again.

I'm sweating profoundly now, and he seems to notice, because he grabs the duvet and just pushes it off me until it slides to the floor beside the bed, and then he scoots closer until he can cuddle up against my side. His naked limbs rub against mine, fitting themselves perfectly into spaces that were apparently designed for exactly that purpose.

But I can't concentrate on that divine feeling yet. I'm still gaping at him. I thought I'd been less obvious.

He grins.

"I'm not a genius like you… but I can read attraction, Sherlock. I can read  _want_. And you have it written all over you." He leans towards me, and I open my lips to meet his in a kiss, but before our mouths can touch, he changes direction and goes for my neck instead. "You're  _crazy_  for the beard," he rumbles against me, and it sounds amused, and kind, and unbelievably sultry.

He rubs his cheek up and down my throat, teasing me, his mouth open, his breath fast and hot and moist. I moan, and my hips buck upwards out of their own acccord. My body's reacting to him without me piloting it, and I guess it's alright. He'll guide. I'll follow. My subconscious seems to know what to do.

" _Hng_ ," he mutters. "Yes…"

He pulls me even closer and licks a long stripe up the side of my neck. His tongue is like velvet, and the air feels cool against the places it touched on its way.

" _John_ ," I hiss, my fingertips digging into his back, my nails scraping his skin.

" _Hmm_ … I've never wanted to touch another man's cock before," he growls into my ear, breathing heavily. "But  _God_ , I want to touch yours… I want to  _taste_  it…"

I gasp. This is so intense, and we haven't even really started yet. 

"Up," he tells me and pulls at my boxers, and when I lift my lower body off the bed, he removes them in one fluid motion.

I help him by folding my legs so that he can slip the garment over my feet and throw it aside, and then, in a fit of very uncharacteristic urgency, I shove my hands down the back of his pants and we mirror the process until he is completely naked as well. We roll onto our sides afterwards, as if drawn towards each other by magnets, and I close my eyes. Any second now---

"Fuck," he whispers when our fronts touch, no,  _collide_ , and presses his face against my chest.

Our erections bump against each other, and we're both leaking already, and it's so, so good. So incredibly, mind-numbingly good. He bites my nipple, and a flash of heat shoots down my back and right between my legs. I'm shaking all over.

" _Fuck_ , you're so sexy…" he moans, tongue-kissing the dip between my pectorals, and then the place where the bullet entered me. " _God_ … Sherlock…"

"John---" I groan. " _Please_ …"

I want him to bite me again, but I don't know how to ask for it. Turns out I needn't have worried - he seems to be able to read my mind.

"You like that?" he pants, pushes me onto my back again, and swirls his tongue around my nipple before taking it between his teeth once more to nibble and pull.

I can't answer, not as long as he keeps doing this - which he does. He's  _killing_  me, slowly and in the best way possible, and I throw my head back and press my cheek into my pillow and whimper at the ceiling.

"That's a yes, I reckon," he mumbles and sucks at the place he's just bitten, making the feeling better  _still_. "Mmhhh…"

This is so different from what I experience when I do it on my own. It's so much more, so much bigger. I'm losing my mind, and I don't even care anymore.

"Oh--- I want to kiss you  _all_   _over_ …" he says, his lips sliding lower, first down my ribs, then across my abdomen. "You're so lovely, so stunning, Sherlock…"

He's very talkative, and I love it. I can't say anything myself - my brain is too busy analysing all the new sensations and filing them away for later revision. I want to learn all about this, about what he likes, about what  _I_  like. I want to become perfect for him. And I’m not sure I could use the same vocabulary anyway – I don’t see myself in bed with him, talking about him being _sexy_ and about his beautiful _cock_. I’m not used to it. But I'm enjoying his outbursts of tender praise, and the more unadorned parts as well.

"John," is all that comes out. " _Yes_ …"

He growls again. I think I'm going to come if he does it only one more time.

"You're---  _so_  hard for me, oh  _God_ …" he mutters throatily and licks through the crease of my thigh until he reaches the base of my penis.

His beard brushes my length, chafes the thin, sensitive skin, and my thighs fall open without me telling them to. He chuckles darkly.

"Yeah, show me…" he whispers, and then I'm in his mouth.

I bite my lip and stifle the scream threatening to break out of me, and he moans around me and clambers over my leg to get into a more comfortable position. He sucks me slowly, and it's tighter and warmer than I could ever have imagined it. His slick tongue circles my tip, pushes into the slit, moves my foreskin further down my shaft, and it makes me fall apart.

"Ah," I pant. " _Nngghhh!_ "

My climax is approaching fast now, and I'm fighting it back, not wanting this to stop, not yet, not  _ever_. My hands are on his head, but I don't remember putting them there. I tug at his hair, run my fingers through it, caress his ears.

He reaches up and pulls one of my hands down until it's cupping his face, and when he sucks me inside again, I can feel my own outline through his flesh. His scruffy jaw, the way I can feel him hollow his cheeks, his soft, nasal moans - it's almost too much for me. I feel myself throb and spill out a streak of hot liquid.

He hums and swallows, and then---

\---then he's gone, too suddenly for me to react, and I open my eyes with some difficulty to find him lying beside me again, tugging at my arm.

"Get on top of me, baby, come on…" he pants. "You're so close… I want to feel you like that… feel you come all over me… oh  _God_ …"

I comply, dumbfounded, and move between his legs, and he pulls at my shoulders to get me to put my weight on him. My penis is right next to his now, pressing against it, so hot, and wet, and  _oh_. My John. I've never been this close to another person before.

"Just move," he tells me and catches my lips in a quick, sloppy kiss. "Do whatever feels good…"

 _I have no idea what I'm doing here_ , I want to say, but I don't, because my hips  _are_  moving now, falling into a fast, primal rhythm of back and forth, and as I grind against him like that, rutting like an animal, I feel the last traces of my inhibitions slip away.

This is right.

This is  _perfect_.

"Yeah," he spurs me on. "Oh  _God_ …"

He runs his hands down my back and draws in a short, sharp breath, and I can tell that he's felt it, so I dive in for a deep, passionate kiss before he can ask.

"Later," I murmur afterwards. "I'll tell you--- later…  _Please_ …"

He misses a beat, but then kisses me back and grips my arse, kneads it slowly. His testicles are already full and drawn up tight, just like my own. They feel so plump, and yet so tender. His chest is heaving. We kiss again, and our tongues entwine even as we pant into each other's mouths.

His legs sling themselves around my lower back, and my next thrust misses its aim and causes me to slip-slide further down between his thighs, past his scrotum, nudging the soft, damp place between his buttocks. He's so hot down there. I feel the urge to just  _push_ , but rein myself in. I know it doesn't work like that. He gasps and bites my bottom lip.

I pull away and get back into position, and his hardness is pulsing so violently by now that I can feel it twitch against mine.

"Sorry…" I say lowly and lick his ear, put my tongue inside it, and he jerks below me and exhales shakily.

"Not now," he whispers, out of breath, and cards his fingers through my hair. "I'll need--- some preparation for that… But I  _want_  to, Sherlock… soon…" He pulls my head back, makes me bare my neck, kisses me there. "I want to do it all with you…  _to_  you…" Some more drops of liquid heat trickle out of him and into the space between us, and he looks at me out of eyes that are deep, bottomless pools of desire. "I want to--- come with you," he adds and hooks his arms around my back again, and before I know it, he's rolled us over and switched our positions so that he's on top of me again.

" _John_ ," I hiss. 

It feels amazing. He's between my legs, rolling his hips, and I have to admit that his technique is a lot more refined than mine. There's quite a bit of wetness now, too, what with our combined sweat and pre-ejaculate and the last remnants of his saliva, and it makes everything feel even more incredible. I close my eyes and sink into the sensation.

"God--- you feel  _so_  good…" he pants and buries his face in the crook of my neck.

His beard is rough on my skin, but his lips and tongue are soft. His hands are in my hair, his fingernails grazing my scalp. He sucks at my pulse point and groans, and the vibrations of his voice ripple through me, making me shiver. Everything between us is hot, slick,  _burning_. So much friction. So little breath.

" _Please_ ," I hear myself beg. "Oh---  _God!_ "

I'm gulping for air. It sounds ridiculous. 

He laughs against my sweaty skin, lowly, pleased with himself.

" _Mmhhh_ , yes…" he grumbles and speeds up his pace. "Let it happen… I  _want_  you to…"

He thrusts harder and nips at my collarbone, grunting with the effort of keeping up his rhythm. Our skin is making wet, slapping noises. The bed is creaking. With my lids shut, every dirty little sound gets multiplied until my ears are roaring with this basic, mindless cacophony we're creating. He pulls at my hair until it hurts a little. It's violent, but so arousing. 

_John John John_

He rubs his chin and cheeks against my chest, first one side, then the other, and the half-gentle, half-painful scraping of his beard against my already over-sensitive nipples is what finally causes me to come undone.

"John!  _Nngghhh!_ "

The sensation whips through me with such force that I forget who and where I am for a moment. My middle explodes in fireworks of ecstasy, and it's nothing like anything I've known before. 

I shudder and buck against him, almost throwing him off me. My moans sound too loud, too shameless to my own ears, but I can’t bring myself to care. It's so strong, this feeling. I'm falling. I'm going  _insane_. My hands grip his shoulders, so hard that it probably hurts, but I need something to hold on to as I lose myself in him. My seed gets smeared between our bodies, making the slide of his loins against mine slicker still. 

He holds me through it all, chasing after his own completion with wild, forceful thrusts, and it doesn't take him very long. The sounds he makes are the most arousing thing I've ever heard. His movements become more and more erratic, then falter altogether, and after a second of absolute stillness he pistons his hips forwards once, twice, and then he's there as well.

"Fu-uck," he moans, almost as if in pain. "Sh--- ah--- _Sherlock!_ "

Groaning through clenched teeth, my name on his lips, he presses his forehead against my cheek and shakes through his orgasm. He's soaked in sweat, all his muscles tense and quivering, and his release is searing hot on my skin. His hips are moving in tight circles now, along with the waves of pleasure that run through him, and I loosen my grip on his shoulders and put my arms around his back instead to caress him with long, calming strokes. I listen to his gasps and the low, squelching sounds of his penis slipping against mine, and to my own heartbeat that's pounding in my ears.

It's so beautiful. 

We move together like that for a long while, slowing down as our pulses stop racing and our breathing evens out, and eventually he stills and sinks down onto me more heavily to put his cheek on my chest.

"Sherlock," he sighs. " _Wow_ …"

I gaze at his tousled hair and trail my fingers down his spine, and in my mind palace, a new room appears, sketches of John's perfect anatomy scattered all over the walls. The long muscles of his back, the dips between his vertebrae, the two dimples right above the soft swell of his buttocks.

I let my hands roam over every inch of his beauty I can reach and my brain immediately translates it into images I want to preserve forever.

"That was amazing," he mumbles tiredly, and then, when I stop mapping his body with my palms: " _Nnnhhh_ … Don't stop…"

I smile to myself. I'm proud to call myself the only person in the world who really knows most of the many faces of John Watson, but the two he shows me today are new to me. The wild, sometimes even almost-too-rough lover, taking what he wants and giving everything he has, and now a softer, gentler version of that man, one who enjoys being held and caressed.

"It was…" I reply. "It was the best thing that has ever happened to me… not counting the day Stamford brought you to the lab and you moved in with me."

He looks up then, putting his weight on his elbows to stare at my face.

"I'm flattered," he whispers and grins. "And  _very_  touched." He kisses my sternum and huffs lazily, rubbing his face against my damp skin. "Hmmm… I enjoyed being this close to you. But… I know you wanted to get even closer. I don't--- You'll have to  _show_  me, Sherlock. This… is new for me, as you know."

I bite my lip, and a million possible reactions to this run through my head in record time. How do I tell him that he's so,  _so_  wrong?

I laugh.

The vibrations of my ribcage beneath him make him bounce up and down a little, which makes me laugh even more, but then I see the hurt in his eyes and stop.

"John," I say and brush his hair off his forehead with both hands. "This--- this was my first time. I've never done this before."

He opens his mouth in surprise.

" _What?_ " he rasps.

I shrug, the corners of my mouth twitching again.

"I'm not laughing at you. It's just--- I'm laughing at myself. I could never show anybody  _anything_  when it comes to sex. I--- I have no bloody idea, John."

He chuckles, but it sounds incredulous.

"Are you serious? Why… didn't you say anything? I would have--- I don't know, I probably would have done a few things differently."

"Why?" I ask.

He purses his lips. It looks guilty.

"Because… I was too rough, too fast. I'm sorry."

He  _is_  sorry, I can see and hear it, but he misunderstands me.

" _John_ \--- you were wonderful," I try to clarify. "Everything you did was perfect. I--- I liked it--- rough."

I feel myself blush. He shakes his head, but his gaze softens and he leans down again to kiss my left nipple this time, ending the kiss with a bit of teeth and tongue. And a lot of beard.

Goose bumps again. I want that beard all over me. As soon as possible.

"I noticed," he breathes and looks back up at me, licking his lips.

I grimace at him, lost in the weirdest kind of limbo between lust and amusement, adrenaline and endorphin coursing through my system, making me feel giddy and weak and already craving his touch all over again.

"Please stop shaving altogether," I say, and then I have to laugh again, and this time he joins me.

"Sherlock… We can't giggle. This is a--- a  _crime scene_ ," he chokes out, and the mirth in his words makes my heart beat faster. 

I'm very,  _very_  much in love, it appears. 

"Because you stole my virginity?" I ask, intending to keep my tone dry, but failing spectacularly.

He frowns, but his mouth is still smiling.

"Stop deducing my jokes," he answers and puts his index finger on my lips.

"I'll stop if you keep the beard," I say against his fingertip, then take it between my teeth for a moment to bite him playfully.

A visible shiver runs through him and he smirks softly, holding my gaze.

"You know where the beard will feel really, really good, too?" he asks, his voice a low rumble. "The back of your neck. While I shag you right into the mattress."

His tone is still light, but there's no denying that this is another facet of his personality I have yet to discover: John Watson, the seducer.

I'm not afraid of this at all, I find. I'd let him do anything to me. I know this should worry me, at least mildly, but it doesn't. It makes me want him even more.

"Rosie will be gone for a few more hours?" I inquire, just to make sure - and to show him that  _yes, please, and why not right now?_

He nods. 

"Come on… Let's clean ourselves up and move to my room. I've got dry sheets… and lube," he says and grins again. "And we'll pick up a bottle of water on the way. You won't be leaving my bed all afternoon."

I rub the nape of his neck, tousle the soft hair there with my fingers.

"What happened to _You’ll have to show me, Sherlock_?" I ask him teasingly.

He raises his eyebrows and uses his own fingers to trace my cheekbones.

"I’m flexible," he whispers with a loving half-smile. "And I want this day to be something you’ll never forget." And then, turning serious again, he says: "I love you, Sherlock. But I know it’s not enough to just say it. I’ll _show_ you. I’ll make sure to never give you a reason to doubt it again."

My throat constricts with emotions I don’t have names for yet. I can’t reply, so I just pull him down into a long, thorough kiss, by the end of which my lips are slightly sore (beard burn _might_ become an issue if we keep up this frequency) and my heart is hammering in my chest. I wonder if it’s always like this, and if this feeling will stay. I wonder if I’ll get better at communicating what I need, now that all our cards are on the table. And I wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t caught me in the act today.

I’d still be so alone.

"I guess the first thing I’ll do is make you stop thinking," he jokes, gently drawing me out of my musings, and nips at my bottom lip. "Care to join me in the bathroom?"

I swallow. My brain helpfully provides me with about half a dozen ideas of what we could do in the bathroom by way of – or _instead_ of – getting clean.

Of course I know that this, this beautiful thing we’re doing together, will not be enough to make everything whole again. It won’t be easy all the time. All I can do is hope it will be alright in the end.

But I won’t worry about that today.

"Lead the way," I say.


End file.
